


i can leave, if you want

by ProfessionalMess



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, First Kiss, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Modern AU, Pining Lance (Voltron), inspired by sad late nights, keith has a small house, lance cries whoops, lowkey Langst, not really sure what else to say about this but enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 14:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15317898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessionalMess/pseuds/ProfessionalMess
Summary: "Keith was always confusing, always made of dark colors and hard edges and warmth so hot it burned, but this was especially true when he was drunk. He was expressionless, emotionless, speechless, a being made of empty, unfilled space and silence. Lance was uncertainty and nervous energy, tapping at Keith’s walls and asking for a way inside.There was nothing Lance hated more than empty, unfilled space and silence, yet there was nothing he wished to have more than Keith."





	i can leave, if you want

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i'm sad and gay

Lance had been at Keith’s house all day. When he’d first arrived, it had been all of them. Him, Keith, Shiro, Allura, Hunk, and Pidge, all piled into Keith’s tiny basement on the couch meant for two. They’d started off playing video games; they challenged each other to Mario Kart races and argued over which characters were the best choice, tried to beat each other at Wii bowling scowled every time someone managed to get a strike, and spent thirty minutes trying to navigate the controls of a game that Keith had owned for years before giving up. 

Soon after that it had been time for snacks, time for racing and tripping each other up the stairs to be the first in Keith’s even smaller kitchen. Keith’s food selection was always tiers above what the size of his cabinets would suggest, and Lance always complained about his variety as if it somehow offended him. 

It took no time at all for snacks to be chosen. They’d spent enough time in Keith’s kitchen that they knew what they wanted, where it was, and whether or not they’d lose a limb for trying to eat it. Once the food had been gathered and already half-eaten on the way down the stairs, it was time for movies. 

Deciding to watch was near impossible, so they’d long ago come up with the solution of letting Netflix choose for them. They all agreed on two numbers: one for the number of rows they’d go down from the one the started on and a second for the number of titles they’d skip over before landing on their choice. They’d found some real gems this way, and it was the only way they ever really got to watch anything. The best part was, when they found a truly shitty movie that spoke wonders of Netflix’s available options, they had no one to blame but Netflix itself. 

Lance wasn’t sure how many movies they’d managed to watch before it was time to eat agan. This time, they piled around Keith’s tiny phone and shouted their takeout orders into the speaker for the man on the other end of the line, their words interspaced with inappropriate giggles and muttered comments. The wait for the food to arrive was excruciating as always, since they’d waited until they were absolutely starving to place the order, like they always did. Hunk won the rock-paper-scissors battle over who would venture upstairs to retrieve the food and carried it down in one trip with the help of his monster truck arms, spreading it out on Keith’s glass coffee table that stood sentry in front of the couch. 

The food was devoured before Lance lifted his head again. His friends reminded him of ravenous animals, always hungry for something they didn't have, regardless if it was truly food or not. They were restless, bustling with unspent energy and unspoken ideas and unexplored emotions. Lance never knew quite how to encourage them to eat, so he sat there and he said nothing about anything important, just as they’d come to expect from him. 

After that, it was time for more games, although of a different kind. These were more like drinking games, like taking shots every time Pidge made an inappropriate joke and seeing how many reasonably sized sips it took to reach the bottom of a wine bottle. They were games like Beer Pong and Quarters and Never Have I Ever, games that let them laugh and yell and smile and forget. 

These games were always Lance’s favorite, because everything was quieter when he was drunk. He didn't have to think of what to say, because the alcohol decided for him. He didn't have to fill the empty silence with his mindless chatter because there  _ was _ no empty silence, just the sound of constant laughter and shouting and the gentle gurgle of sloshing liquid. When he was drunk and his friends were drunk and everyone crammed into the tiny space was drunk just like he was, no one was paying attention to him. Even better, he wouldn’t’ve cared if they were. All he cared about was the fog in his head, the accentuated beating of his heart that he could feel in every corner of his body and the warmth in his chest, the blissful way that he didn't know where he was or who he was or why any of that mattered. 

Lance never really thought about anything when he was drunk, and it was a glorious thing, a welcome reprieve. 

The third meal of the day was found once again in Keith’s inhumanly sized kitchen. The trip up the stairs was even more dangerous this time, filled with drunken laughter and support, hanging on to anyone and anything they could reach to make sure they didn't fall themselves. They ate whatever they could find, leftovers from days before and bags of popcorn freshly popped, pickles straight from the jar and milk straight from the carton. They paid no mind to what they’d think of their choices tomorrow, too busy giggling and chewing and swallowing everything down at once, laughter and food and emotions alike. 

That was around the time that people started to leave. Keith never asked them to stay, even though they were drunk and unsteady on their feet. None of them were driving—Lance always made sure—and they lived close enough to make their way on their own, or at the very least had someone to call for assistance. 

Pidge left first, just like always. She had a new hypothesis to test out and she always worked her best when she was sleep deprived and inebriated (so she said), so she walked up Keith’s stairs and out his door and stopped two houses down, spent a solid five minutes trying to unlock her door and finally stepped inside, giving the rest of them a halfhearted wave as she disappeared. 

It was another several hours before any of the rest of them called it quits. There was no more alcohol but there were board games, so they filled their time that way, their voices now softer and quieter but no less empty, no less hollow. Their eyes flicked over colorful game boards and small paper cards and plastic pieces and none of them noticed when they stopped paying them the proper amount of attention. They were just moving shit around now, yelling every once in awhile, glaring at each other when they got too close to touching someone else’s piece. 

It wasn’t until Hunk fell asleep on Allura’s shoulder that the two of them left. 

Allura lived two blocks away from Keith and one street over from Hunk, and she had consumed the least amount of alcohol out of any of them, so she was the most qualified to take Hunk home. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before, and she shot them all a thin smile as they traipsed through Keith’s doorway that was hardly wide enough to fit both of them at the same time, the only semblance of a goodbye they received before she was gone. 

When it was just the three of them, Keith and Lance and Shiro, Lance became a shadow. Keith and Shiro were brothers, after all. They got along better than Lance could ever dream of, knew each other more thoroughly than Lance could even imagine. It only made sense that he would fade to the background. 

Shiro and Keith talked in quiet voices as if it pained them to speak up, as if their vocal chords had been damaged and were still trying to heal. Lance was sitting close enough to hear everything, anyway. He always was. It barely crossed his mind to wonder if they knew. 

Lance wasn’t sure if they ever talked about anything that mattered. He didn't know what was important to the two of them, so it wasn’t his decision to make. The sound of their low, gentle voices was soothing to hear, and it never failed to taunt Lance with the simple silence of sleep, even if Lance knew he’d never give in.

Just like always, Lance ceased to breathe the moment Shiro walked out the door. 

Lance wasn’t sure when he was going home, if he  _ was _ going home. He didn't know what Keith was, didn't know what he was to Keith, didn't know where he belonged. Keith didn't look at him as he got up off the couch meant for two and stomped up the stairs meant for one, walking down the narrow hallway and into his room.

Lance followed behind on silent feet, afraid to alert Keith of his presence. He wasn’t sure what would happen if Keith remembered he was here. 

Keith was always confusing, always made of dark colors and hard edges and warmth so hot it burned, but this was especially true when he was drunk. He was expressionless, emotionless, speechless, a being made of empty, unfilled space and silence. Lance was uncertainty and nervous energy, tapping at Keith’s walls and asking for a way inside. 

There was nothing Lance hated more than empty, unfilled space and silence, yet there was nothing he wished to have more than Keith. 

Keith’s room was perhaps the biggest room in his house, just spacious enough to fit a bed and a desk and nothing else. Keith didn't bother to turn on the light as he walked inside, the light of his phone illuminating the barren floor well enough for Keith to navigate it without incident. He took a seat in his floor with his back to his desk, his front facing the edge of his bed. Lance took a seat across from him, his total opposite, as silent as he’d been since the alcohol stuck its barbs in his mind. 

Lance could leave, if Keith wanted.

He wasn’t sure what would happen if Keith remembered he was here. 

He hoped that Keith remembered, that Keith didn't mind, that Keith was glad he was here just like Lance was. If not, Lance would leave without a word. 

Lance, as much as his mind liked to pretend otherwise, did not know much about Keith. He knew his full name and his birthday, the name of every member of his mom’s side of the family and the name of his first dog, the song he sang to himself when he was afraid and the song Shiro used to sing to him when he couldn’t sleep. He knew Keith’s favorite movie and Keith’s favorite book and Keith’s favorite type of food, the model of Keith’s first car and how many months it took him to save up for the motorcycle he had now. 

But Lance did not know how Keith felt about Lance, and that was what really mattered. 

Keith stared at Lance, sometimes, and Lance never knew what it meant. There was no difference in Keith’s eyes when he looked at Lance as opposed to when he looked at anyone else, and the features of his face didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't scrunch in any way that meant anything. 

When it came to navigating Keith, Lance was lost.

Lance was quite confident in what he wanted, knew what it was that he craved. He often found himself staring at Keith right back and knew that, if ever given the chance, Lance would pay. Lance would pay real money that he had worked hard to earn for Keith to stride across the room and gather Lance in his arms, for Keith to reach out and place his fingertips ever so gently on Lance’s cheek, for Keith to pull Lance into his bed and hold him until the stars ran away and the sun filtered through the clouds once again. 

But there Keith was, sitting three feet away, making no move to bring himself closer, even as his eyes flicked up from the screen of his phone to acknowledge Lance. The heavy darkness of the room pressed against Lance’s chest and he breathed, in and out, in and out, trying to remind himself that it was the right thing to do. Ceasing to breathe would do him no favors. 

Keith appeared to be doing much the same, his chest rising and falling almost unnoticeably as the blackness of night swallowed up the light of his phone. 

Lance sat and let the silence fill up his ears until he couldn’t anymore, until the pounding of his heart had become audible and the panic threatened to seize the muscles in his throat. He was still here, after all, and the clock read 1:46 in the morning and Keith had yet to say anything about it. 

“I can leave, if you want,” Lance breathed, his voice cracked and raw. Keith did not look up at him but his hand shook, a flash of light illuminating the wall behind him before it refocused on his face, the center of Lance’s attention. 

Keith’s expression did not change, his eyes flicking slowly over whatever he was looking at on his phone. Keith’s face gave Lance no more of an answer than his voice had, and Lance began to hear static in his head, the silence oppressive. 

Lance studied Keith’s mouth, his eyes, the curve of his nose, yearning to reach out and brush away the strands of hair that had fallen from where they’d been carefully tucked behind Keith’s ear. Lance didn't dare move his hand. This wasn’t about what Lance wanted, this was about what Keith surely did not. 

Lance leaned against the sturdy frame of the bed and let out a silent sigh, his eyes tired and his eyelids held open by sheer force of will. Lance wanted to tell Keith that reading his phone by such nonexistent light was bad for his eyes, that it was rude to be on his phone when he had company, but Lance’s lips no longer knew what it was to separate. They had been pressed tightly together longer than he could keep track of, so he didn't try to say anything again. He was becoming quite familiar with their kind of quiet. 

Lance tucked his feet under his legs and settled down, content to watch Keith in his own little world before he remembered Lance was there and told him to go. Keith smiled at something on his screen and began to type, his lips twitching into the ghost of an expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. Five agonizing seconds passed before the light was suddenly extinguished, Keith’s face plunged into darkness like the rest of the room.

Lance tried very hard to keep himself from pouting, and did not succeed. 

He could feel the wisps of Keith’s breath span the space in between them and gently jostle the thin hair framing Lance’s face, the only reminder that Keith was still in the room with him. Lance took comfort in the slight tickle, took comfort in the fact that Keith hadn’t left and hadn’t asked Lance to leave, either. 

Lance’s eyes adjusted to the darkness very slowly, as if they were afraid of what they’d see. The only thing in the room worth looking at was Keith, and Keith was staring at him, as he was sometimes known to do. Lance’s breath froze in his chest, his heart beating so weakly that he couldn’t even be sure it still was. 

Lance’s eyes searched and searched and searched, and Keith’s face gave him nothing. 

It was a frozen picture of nothingness, and Lance felt as if he was a philosopher, searching for a deeper meaning he was almost positive he would never find. 

Just because Lance wanted to mean something to Keith didn't mean that he ever would, and perhaps it was a fact that would do Lance good to accept sooner rather than later. 

Lance, however, was stubborn. There had to be a reason he was here, looking at Keith look at him, feeling as if he was overstaying a welcome he wasn’t positive he’d ever received. 

Keith scooted the tiniest bit closer, pulling his legs out from underneath him and crossing them, his hands falling to rest on his ankles. 

There was absolutely no reason why the subtle shift should have stolen the breath from Lance’s lungs, and yet here he was, struggling to breathe.

Lance’s eyes had begun to sting, whether it was from the exhaustion or the stress or the tears pricking at the back of his eyes, he was unable to tell. Lance’s mind was running a million miles a minute, trying to wrap itself around what was happening. He really, truly didn't know. 

As the tears began to drip from his dark eyelashes, Lance felt ashamed. For what, he didn't know. Perhaps it was the fact that he was crying in front of Keith, or the fact that he was soiling the sanctity of Keith’s personal space with his salt water, or the fact that Keith still hadn’t cleared up his stance on Lance’s continued presence and now, here Lance was, crying about it.  

The very last thing that Lance expected was for Keith to close the distance between them, scooting across the carpet until Lance was tucked between his arms, his fingers running through the short strands of Lance’s hair. 

“You don’t ever have to leave, not if you don’t want to,” Keith whispered against the top of his head, his voice thick and full of holes. Lance didn't know what to do with it, didn't know what to do with any of it. He very slowly lifted his arms until they were wrapped around Keith’s back, holding him to his chest. 

Lance kept crying, even though he supposed he didn't really have a reason anymore. Keith had just uttered the words Lance had been dying to hear, but his head was heavy and sad and Keith was letting him cry, so Lance cried. He clutched Keith’s shirt in his fists and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing their bodies together as tightly as he could. 

Keith pulled Lance into his lap and began running his smooth fingertips over Lance’s body, over his arms and his legs and his chest and his back, over his clothes and his skin and his bones. Lance shivered lightly, mind otherwise occupied with the thought that this experience was everything he had thought it might be. 

Lance decided that he wasn’t going to leave. 

He relaxed his muscles and opened his fists, his fingertips returning the favor, tracing over Keith’s warm frame slowly and carefully, as if Keith was a wild animal he didn't want to scare away. 

Lance didn't know how long they stayed in the floor like that, wrapped in soft warmth and unspoken emotion and gentle touches, but it was long enough for the sun to rise. When Lance raised his head from where it rested on Keith’s chest and looked in his eyes, they weren’t quite so vacant this time. For once, looking at Keith didn't feel like he was intruding on a moment that was not his own.

Lance looked in Keith’s eyes and knew exactly what they said, knew exactly what they wanted, so Lance leaned forward and kissed him, soft and gentle and hesitant all the same. 

Keith pulled Lance back to his chest and Lance smiled, feeling as if he was drowning, in only the best way possible. 

He figured he knew where Keith stood on the matter of Lance’s continued presence, now.  

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed :)) <3


End file.
